


Throned

by mechanistmacha (SaturnJay), SaturnJay



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: And also Claude, Angst with a Happy Ending, Consensual Sex, Cults, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extreme angst, Extremely Dubious Consent, Healing, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Mind Rape, Monsters, Multi, OOC Sylvain, Other, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sad Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sibling Incest, Size Difference, Teratophilia, The Blue Lions rally around their beloved Sylvain, the curative powers of friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23975602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaturnJay/pseuds/mechanistmacha, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaturnJay/pseuds/SaturnJay
Summary: They had Sylvain back in their arms, wasn’t that all that mattered?Five years ago they’d lost him, right after the battle for the Monastery. And every day, Dimitri blamed himself, and every day Felix and Dedue searched, and every day Ashe and Ingrid went scouting… Not a single lead. Not one. Not for five long years. There was a war to fight; they couldn’t waste precious time and resources searching for him. But they did. They did waste precious time and resources looking for him, because they were not going to give up on a man they all loved so dearly. They were not going to give up on Sylvain because Sylvain would not give up on them.“Miklan,” was the only explanation he gave at first, when Ingrid had shoved him into a chair, when Dimitri (the King of Faerghus himself) wrapped a blanket over his shoulders, when Ashe pressed a warm cup of tea into his hand. And Sylvain’s brown eyes were empty, reflected in the liquid he did not drink.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	1. Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you get in a dark mood. But I don't write things that don't end at least somewhat happily. This will focus heavily on Sylvain's healing from his brother's traumatic torture and manipulation. He wouldn't be able to do so without his friends, of course.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For five years, Sylvain was lost. But even though he's returned, the look in his eyes is as lost as ever. Dimitri tries to talk to him, but it goes about as horribly as one could expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: description of monstrous sexual assault, dubiously consenting blow job

They had Sylvain back in their arms, wasn’t that all that mattered?

Five years ago they’d lost him, right after the battle for the Monastery. And every day, Dimitri blamed himself, and every day Felix and Dedue searched, and every day Ashe and Ingrid went scouting… Not a single lead. Not one. Not for five long years. There was a war to fight; they couldn’t waste precious time and resources searching for him. But they did. They  _ did  _ waste precious time and resources looking for him, because they were not going to give up on a man they all loved so dearly. They were not going to give up on Sylvain because Sylvain would not give up on them.

Their Sylvain was sweet, was obnoxious, was so lazy, was so much smarter than he let on. Sylvain was always by their sides, their Sylvain was a complete and utter idiot, and gentle, and always there for them. Their Sylvain, who had learned Faith just to bring Felix back from the brink of death. Their Sylvain, who had suffered so many sleepless nights to sit with Dimitri, or suffer his babbling, to make sure his ghosts did not consume him. Their Sylvain, who had insisted, without fail or fear of his reputation, to defend Dedue and all the people of Duscur, Sylvain, who had encouraged Ashe through his dreams of knighthood, who had annoyed the shit out of Ingrid but was always,  _ always  _ there when she wanted to sulk and rant about the pressures of her father’s marriage requests.

Sylvain seemed like nothing more than a charming idiot to others. But to the Blue Lions, he was family. No, they’d not give up on him. So even when Edelgard fell, their war was not over. They searched. And one day, seemingly eluding all military reports, Sylvain returned to them, right at the gates of the castle of Fhirdiad, seemingly whole, seemingly intact but for a few new scars.

He was older, but so were they all, and there was no mistaking him, not when they knew him so well. And he was back home, he was returned to them.

So wasn’t that all that mattered?

Well, no. In fact, he was not  _ their _ Sylvain anymore.

“Miklan,” was the only explanation he gave at first, when Ingrid had shoved him into a chair, when Dimitri (the King of Faerghus himself) wrapped a blanket over his shoulders, when Ashe pressed a warm cup of tea into his hand. And Sylvain’s brown eyes were empty, reflected in the liquid he did not drink.

“Miklan?” Felix shot, incredulous. They were all still coming down from the high of finding him. It had only been half an hour since he came into the castle where they all lived for now, unable to be separated from one another even after the gruesome war had ended. “But we saw him die… he died by  _ your  _ lance,” he pointed out, and they could all only nod in agreement. There were so many witnesses, it had to be so.

Sylvain just looked up at him for a long time. “He survived,” he said, hoarse from the exhaustion of his travel. “His followers dragged off his body after he… changed back.” 

They’d never forget the first time they saw the man’s transformation into a black beast. None of them could set foot in Gaspard without remembering, none of them lived without its haunting.

Felix crossed his arms, but even he, the most skeptical among their ranks, believed him. He was still trying to recover his ego from hugging Sylvain so tightly and so long when he first saw him again. Not that any of them, who held him even more tightly and for longer, would fault him. “I can’t believe it… how did he survive?”

Sylvain shook his head. That, he didn’t know the answer to.   
“Oh, you poor thing!” Mercedes cooed, hands falling over Sylvain’s shoulders, so light and comforting.

Dimitri was on his knees in front of the armchair, so overcome with relief at his dear friend’s reappearance, having feared him dead for so long that Sylvain had begun to join with Glenn and Lambert in his ghostly retinue. “What happened, Sylvain?” he begged, looking up at him with his single eye, a consequence of the war he’d waged with Edelgard. “After we left the monastery… you vanished one night.”   
Sylvain’s eyes met Dimitri’s face but not his gaze. “They dragged me off too. I thought for sure you’d come looking for me.”

The accusation hung in the air like a gas lamp limp on a weary string. Waiting to fall. To break. To spread the fire.

But that night had been full of confusion. Their camp had been stormed. So many of them had nearly lost their lives, Imperial forces having returned for them, not wanting to let the Crown Prince of Faerghus go. And taken him, they had. It was only thanks to Dedue and his kin that Dimitri survived his near-execution at all.

“W-we looked!” Annette cried, trying to reinforce that string of tension, but the lamp swayed when Sylvain looked at her. “We searched everywhere, but there wasn’t a trace!”

“We… we assumed you’d been taken by Imperialists,” Dimitri confessed, his voice so light and so, so heavy. “We did everything we could to find you, Sylvain.”

“Well, not  _ everything, _ huh?” Sylvain smiled.

The lamp fell. The glass broke. The fire spread.

“I’m tired,” Sylvain said all of the sudden, and the illusion of the typical lopsided grin they all remembered died on his lips. He made no move to stand. “And you’re all crowding me.”

For one half-moment, Felix thought, like the Agarthans had done with others before, that Sylvain had been replaced. Never in all their years together had Sylvain spoken to any of them like that. Spoken to  _ anyone  _ like that. But no. No, even if this was merely an illusion, even pragmatic Felix could not put his sword through it. Not when he’d been hoping for so, so long. Not when he’d worked himself to the bone and sacrificed so much to see him again. No, not even if it was a mirage would Felix attempt to sour this reunion. Most unfitting for him. He opened his mouth to snap right back, but Dimitri’s voice filled the air instead.

“He must be fatigued,” Dimitri said quietly. “Everyone, please leave. I will take care of him.”

And the only reason they departed at all after waiting so long to see Sylvain, was because they weren’t sure it  _ was  _ Sylvain. The only one who hesitated to leave was Felix.

“Felix,” Dimitri warned, this time as his King and not his friend, but Felix ignored him.

“Fine,” he said finally, having stared Sylvain down, and realized in alarm that Sylvain stared back. Non-confrontational, non-judgmental, non-committal Sylvain stared back at him and did not blink.

Felix left the two of them be. Dimitri swallowed.

“Sylvain,” he whispered, reaching for his hand. “Sylvain, please believe me. We looked for you, we  _ looked.” _

Sylvain turned his head with the motion of his free hand, putting the tea on the side table instead. “I know you did,” he confessed, and with everyone gone, it sounded softer as he looked back. Dimitri’s eye caught on his and hoped that Sylvain meant it, because the alternative, of Sylvain assuming that they hadn’t looked, was worse than finding him dead in some ways. “Especially you, Dima.” He reached down and caressed Dimitri’s cheek with his thumb, just under the eyepatch. “What happened here?”

Dimitri knew it was a blatant shift away from the real topics. But apparently, Sylvain did not want to talk about Miklan. He was happy to give him an escape for now, happy to lean into his touch, so gentle, as it had always been the few times Sylvain had ever touched him, mostly in healing his hurts. “One of Cornelia’s spells,” he breathed, finding it surprisingly difficult to find breath after his friend had appeared after so, so long of fearing his ghost. “But it was a small price to pay for my life. For Dedue's life.”

Sylvain stared at him--stared at the eyepatch rather. “A shame,” he said flatly and Dimitri got the feeling that it was almost like Sylvain preferred him dead than with a missing eye. But surely that was a trick played on him by one of his ghosts. “Your eyes were so pretty, Dima.”

Dimitri tried to understand, he really did. “Sylvain…” he tried, gazing up at him with such grief. Was he blaming him for not finding him sooner? Was he blaming him for winning a war and holding a coronation for the sake of Faerghus and his people before searching to his fullest? He found he had no rebuttal. “Sylvain,” he hung his head now, his yellow hair laying limp over his eye. “I--”

Sylvain ripped the eyepatch from Dimitri’s face. In shock, Dimitri remained still, his lips parted as if to say something, protest, shout in indignation. But he could not bring himself to do any of those things, not against his dear friend.

The rough pad of Sylvain’s palm covered the mess of white scars instead.

“You look so good on your knees, Your Majesty.”

Dumbfounded, Dimitri jerked his head upright, but did not move to remove Sylvain’s hand from him. And there, for a moment, he thought he saw that teasing smirk, as from so, so long ago.  _ His  _ Sylvain.

“Sylvain,” he said his name again, and it was difficult but he mustered up the energy to find that scolding tone within him. “Must you joke at a time like this? Everyone is so worried--”

“Don’t assume I’m joking,” Sylvain interrupted, and there was no teasing this time, only brown eyes, cold as the tea on the table. “After such a long war, I am surprised I could still be a joke to you.” He let his hand slip from Dimitri’s face.

“You were  _ never _ a joke!” Dimitri found the horror within him to express. “Sylvain, please--”

“Please,” Sylvain cut across him yet again, with all the finality of a falling blade. “Spare me the theatrics. You may have spent five years in a  _ very  _ dramatic war, but I spent my time at battle with myself, and I’m in no mood.”

Dimitri couldn’t believe what he heard before him. A flare of anger stirred in him, sure as the Crest of his blood, and as he struggled to keep it at bay, to remind himself what Sylvain must have gone through, he swore he saw Sylvain smile, as if amused by his fury. “Sylvain,  _ talk  _ to me. What happened to you? I swear to you, I will listen. If I can do nothing else, I can listen.”

“You’ve been doing an awful lot of listening, I heard,” Sylvain sneered at him, resting his chin on his fist. “Listening to the commands of the dead, hearing their voices. I guess it must be such a luxury to hear so well, straight to the other side, that you forget about the friends on this one.”

Dimitri’s jaw dropped, then abruptly tightened. He wasn’t sure he wasn’t talking to a ghost anymore. But he’d spent long enough with his friends to know that, though he certainly had sins to atone for, he was worth more than the abuse he’d given himself for so long. But to hear it from  _ him... _ “Sylvain. I understand you have had a rough time, and I want to hear and heal you. But whatever grudge you may have against me--”

Sylvain  _ yawned,  _ loud and long, bored with the conversation. He dangled the cloth eyepatch by its string over the side of the chair and grinned at him. “Listening and chattering, the two things you were always good at. All those  _ lectures,  _ over and over again about my behavior at school and what good did it ever do? I suppose I should’ve told Miklan, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, His Highness doesn’t want me out late! Could you get me back by curfew?’”

And once again, Dimitri’s heart broke. He felt guilty for even being angry with Sylvain, and once again bowed his head in shame. “I… deserve everything you wish to say to me,” he confessed, swallowing. “Just, please… please understand that we looked for you. We were still looking. We never  _ once  _ forgot you.”

Sylvain’s sneer vanished and he dropped the eyepatch. Though he did not return to the Sylvain he once was, he looked undoubtedly more sincere. “Dima.”

Dimitri looked up obediently, not needing the coaxing of Sylvain’s hand on his chin, even though he touched him anyway.

“I know you didn’t forget.”

And before Dimitri could respond, Sylvain had leaned out of the chair, leaned out of the blanket, his lips soft and full against Dimitri’s. The King did not pull away, not once, because no matter what Sylvain wanted, he would give him. Sylvain,  _ his  _ Sylvain was so, so warm.

And yet his lips were so, so cold.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ “No, no, no!” Sylvain sobbed, struggling against the hands in his hair, at his ankles, the rope that had scratched his wrists raw. He couldn’t face him again--he’d killed Miklan once, he couldn’t look at his face and know he was real, he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t-- _

_ His brother’s fucking goons didn’t listen. They pushed him into the throne and bound him there, not with ropes this time, but heavy chains, stretched tight and cold over his chest, pinning down his arms and legs. _

_ Who could guess who this throne once belonged to? But it was raised high on the stone dais, and so Sylvain, strung there, was forced to look down upon the bandits as if they were his loyal subjects. _

_ And there was Miklan, with the twisted half body of a beast. He limped forward down the stairs to the dais and  _ **_smiled_ ** _ at him, feigning that simpering, sycophantic grin a common man would give to curry favor with their king. _ _  
_ **_You will be our idol now,_ ** _ he snarled through the flat teeth of a human and the fangs of a beast bestowed upon him, a gift of their family heirloom. The Lance of Ruin had ruined him. No human could look upon Miklan now without their stomach turning, even if they saw him a thousand times. _

_ And Sylvain, tied to the throne of an ancient king deep underground, saw him a thousand times more than that. _

_ More than insane, Miklan was immortal. He bore the mind of a man, engineering, and the half-body of a brutal dragon, domineering. He had survived thus far. And the bandits who once followed him had been joined in equal measure by cultists in worship of this Immortal. _

_ And the Immortal chose to worship Sylvain. _

  
  
  
  


“Hey,” Sylvain cooed at Dimitri, finally pulling away. He rubbed his fingertips over the swollen pink lips of the King of Faerghus. “Come here.”

Dimitri was inclined to do as he said, his head blissfully full of Sylvain, whom he loved and adored so much, finally returned to him after so, so long. He moved closer, shuffling on his knees, ignoring the unforgiving stone floor beneath. Sylvain smiled; how cute was it, that this beast of a man didn’t even think to stand when he motioned  _ come hither  _ to him?

Sylvain patted his thigh, a respite for the beast, and Dimitri laid his head there, hugging Sylvain’s knees.

Well, Sylvain mused. This armchair could be his throne for now.

Licking the dry of his lips, Sylvain reached down, stroking that golden hair, so full now, not like when he was younger and kept it neat and trimmed. It was so full, the mane of a lion, and so soft to touch. He thought he should like to pet him endlessly. But he did not. As soon as Dimitri got comfortable there on his lap, he tugged the mane. Guided him closer. Spread his legs.

“Don’t you want to give me a warmer welcome, Dima?” he chuckled.

Dimitri’s eye rolled up at him, blank and questioning, before it hit him. So cute and  _ dumb.  _ “Sylvain…” he sighed, but Sylvain’s hand was sharper now, digging into his scalp.   
“So are you going to treat me like a joke again? Or is it a lecture this time?”

Dimitri couldn’t possibly say all that was in his heart. That after five years of keeping the ghosts at bay (truthfully, more like nine since the Tragedy), the memory of those long nights with Sylvain had kept him sane. That there was no love Dimitri had ever experienced like Sylvain’s. That there was no pain like losing him, not even the flames of Duscur.

That he had always,  _ always  _ loved him.

He swallowed those words instead and, turning his gaze to Sylvain’s lap, he reached up to fumble with the laces of his breeches. It was the least he could do for Sylvain, who had endured so much. It was the very least he could do, when he had spent five years looking and failed to find him, failed to save him. It was the very least he could do for Sylvain, who had to rescue himself, when they had all been rescued by him before.

Why was he half-hard already? Had Sylvain meant what he said before, that he looked pretty on his knees?

Sylvain spread his thighs and released a sigh as he was finally freed from the confines of his clothing. How powerful, having a King on his knees before him. Was that the reason he was already so aroused? Or was it Dimitri himself? Ah, what did it matter? How sweet this revenge, finally having Dimitri on  _ his  _ knees for once, instead of all the times Sylvain had been forced to do it for him.

Of course, deep down, somewhere buried that Sylvain no longer had access to, he knew that he’d never  _ had  _ to do anything for Dimitri. That he had always volunteered, always wanted to. That he loved him too.

But that? That was firmly locked, memories and feelings that had sunken into the sea of his chest, never to resurface. And one day? One day, he’d forget them. That day was already so, so near.

He threaded his fingers tightly through Dimitri’s thick blonde hair, and hissed with pleasure as he felt the King’s tongue touching his body softly. “You’ve been practicing,” he teased him, not that Dimitri could even respond with his mouth so full. “Was it Felix or Dedue?”

He couldn’t see Dimitri’s face, but he felt it burn hot from the accusation. But he didn’t pull away to answer. Probably both, then, Sylvain reasoned. That was fine. He’d show them too.

Dimitri didn’t understand this. Why was Sylvain acting like this? If he had only asked sincerely, Dimitri would have been happy to kiss him, to hold him, to even do this, do  _ anything  _ he wanted, didn’t he know? Didn’t Sylvain know how cherished and adored he was? Perhaps he could remind him. Could show him, through service, that Sylvain had been missed, had been loved, was  _ still  _ loved.

It--it wasn’t like Sylvain was  _ forcing  _ him, after all, right? In terms of strength… Well, that was a contest any mortal would lose against a man with the Blaiddyd Crest, especially after five years hardened at war. So though Dimitri would much rather hold and curl Sylvain into his arms, he would do what Sylvain wanted. Sylvain’s comfort was all that mattered to him. Therefore, he’d do his absolute best for him. He deserved that much. Who knew what he’d endured for five years? Especially with Miklan as the one who held him.

He let Sylvain hold his hair tightly as he reached into his lap, stroking the base of his cock as he had done for others before. His hands were scarred, as was the rest of him now, but he was gentle and he was slow. He leaned forward enough to use his lips, wet them enough with his tongue that it would feel pleasurable as he slipped the tip of Sylvain’s cock over his tongue. He was rewarded with the sound of a groan and he responded with a sound of his own, because no matter how cold Sylvain was acting, Dimitri had always wanted to do this for him and never had the chance before he was gone.

  
  
  
  


_ “What are you  _ **_doing?!”_ ** _ Sylvain cried, struggling under the chains. “Just fucking  _ **_die_ ** _ already!” He tried to headbutt the woman in the dark robes who was securing the manacles on his arm, but he came up short against the bindings across his chest. He was so, so ashamed of the tears burning his collarbone, but he was even more afraid than he was ashamed. “Just… just let me go, Miklan! This is  _ **_crazy!”_ **

_ The half-beast ignored him. He lumbered, stomping below, a good thirty feet below as his bulging tail swept dust and stone debris up every which way he turned, searching for something. _

**_Crazy… yes, yes I suppose it is._ **

_ And then, because Sylvain couldn’t do anything to stop him, the beast clawed his way up the narrow stone steps towards him, up towards his newest idol, one foot and one paw scraping divots into the rock and throwing his strange, elongated head towards the woman who bound him. She screamed as she fell off the dais, silenced only as her neck broke on the ground below. _

_ Sylvain shook and sobbed, trying to get away, trying to press back into the throne and away from Miklan’s stomach-lurching half form. They had stripped and bound him in chains, and he figured, somehow, that seeing them sleep by the drugged smoke of their dying fire was the last time he’d ever see his friends again. _

_ The feel of something putrid and thick against his feet made him tremble as Miklan’s tongue  _ **_rolled_ ** _ out of his mouth, the length and width of a sword. Sylvain couldn’t even wrap his mind around how the entire thing fit into Miklan’s half-human mouth. It was so vile and grey, panting hot against his naked body that he threw up, barely able to turn his head in time to get the bile over the side of the throne, on top of the dead cultist no doubt. And then, to his horror, that tongue, as if a limb of his own, slowly lathed over his body, bathing him in the repulsive stench of the beast his brother had become. It was like someone had crusted a towel with refuse and molten rock before dragging it over his thighs, up his stomach and chest, leaving a trail of thick, cloying saliva in its wake. Sylvain could do nothing but weep and shudder as it dragged slowly over his shoulders, wrapped a bit over his neck, and left a burning sensation in his cheek and on his scalp. _

_ If he had anything left to throw up, he would have done it then. All around him was the smell of blood, of sewage, of  _ **_vermin._ **

_ And worse, the heat was stimulating his body with fear and with adrenaline, the urge to fight and flee so strong that he went blind with it, kicking out so violently that he only managed to mangle his own ankle in the chains. _

  
  
  
  


The feeling, the memory of that heat was repulsive to him even now, and Sylvain tightened his grip in Dimitri’s hair so close, ripping at his scalp, that he could feel his single eye tear up against his leg. He loosened his hold a bit, petting him instead.

“I heard you’ve been lost,” he smiled down at Dimitri, who could only look up at him, his mouth full. “Just like me, huh? They say you were like a wandering beast.”

Dimitri’s eye widened and Sylvain could see the hurt there, reveled in it, before he cast his blue eye down again, focusing on the task instead of trying to defend himself. “There’s no need to be ashamed,” Sylvain purred. “There’s a little bit of that in all of us, isn’t there?”

He didn’t expect or want an answer. He pressed down on the King’s head until he heard him choke and held him there, smirking as Dimitri briefly struggled to take all of him. “Come on, you can do better than that. After all the times I’ve done it for you… and you’re  _ bigger  _ than me.”

Dimitri knew he was right. And he… he  _ owed  _ it to him. He fought to relax the muscles of his throat, to press his tongue flat against the sensitive vein, to bring Sylvain pleasure, bring him  _ comfort  _ after what must have been five years of torment.

As for Sylvain, he stared at the door over Dimitri’s head, not really paying attention to him. He was back, but he wasn’t  _ home.  _ He could never go home again. He’d tried to, tried to see what had become of the Margravate in his absence, but couldn’t bring himself to go in. Not after all the memories of Miklan there. He  _ had  _ left the Lance of Ruin behind. He didn’t need that anymore.

But there was no way he’d come here to heal. He came here because there was nowhere else to go, no one else who would accept him after all he’d been through. But he could abuse his friends all he wanted and they’d complain but never give up on him. He’d tested their patience for years. And now, having thought he was dead, they would give him anything he wanted.

And he was going to take it from them. He deserved it. He deserved this.

Miklan had helped to show him that.

Dimitri winced a bit, surprised as Sylvain came without warning, coating his tongue, the back of his throat with heat. He had planned to swallow, because he loved Sylvain and he owed it to him, but even so, he felt Sylvain force his head down against his lap and choked a bit. Only when he let go of Dimitri’s hair did the King pull away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and staring up at Sylvain, eye glazed over with multitudes, with layers--lust, longing, love, concern.

Sylvain cared for none of it. “Hey, thanks,” he smiled, patting Dimitri’s cheek affectionately, like a dog. “Your tongue’s as good as I always imagined it would be.”

He stood up, straightened his breeches, brushed past Dimitri, headed for the door. Just left him there. Dimitri’s throat was ragged and spent, but he called out hoarsely. “Sylvain?” Was that really all he could say after five years of being missing?  _ Your tongue’s as good as I always imagined? _

Sylvain looked back, surveyed the King, still on his knees, half-aroused himself from sucking him. But his eyes betrayed no worry, because he didn’t feel that anymore. “Yeah?”

Dimitri was just… shocked. “I… I’m so glad you’re safe,” he murmured, watching him hopefully, as if the old Sylvain,  _ his  _ Sylvain, would come right back to him.

Sylvain winked at him and left, the door slamming on the way out.

_ What good is that?  _ Sylvain shrugged to himself.  _ I don’t need anything but your worship. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry...

Hello everyone,

I'm so sorry it's been taking me so long to write! My best friend and I are moving out of state and we have a lot of stuff to do. Recently I've been going through a lot of crises as well (both in loss and identity) and I appreciate your patience so much.

The annoying part is that I have to move this fic and a few others onto a different A03 profile. I've not set up the new profile yet, so if you wish to follow the newer version of this fic, I'll have it posted on my twitter @Mechanist_Macha so be on the lookout for that as well. _**IT WILL BE UNDER A DIFFERENT TITLE**_ so please be aware of that!

Thank you so much for the comments and the kudos; I appreciate you all so much and I hope you keep reading! <3333


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